Playing with the big boys
by Mrs Fruitcake
Summary: Alex's star is on the rise as she's invited to speak at a national conference on modern policing ... Gene's presence isn't required. GALEX following on from London Fields. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

**This is the second in my series of six conncted stories about A2A. It follows London Fields and preceeds And If I Start a Commotion. **

**Thank you to ThisisZircon for giving this a good beta-ing :)**

_**I**_

Workmen had left a sledgehammer next to a half-demolished brick wall and Hunt made Carling run back from the terraced house steps to get it.

Skelton was hunched by the front door next to a non-plussed tortoise shell cat. Couldn't hold his damn gun without shaking, and he flinched at the sound of breaking glass from around the front.

Irritated, Hunt told him to go down to the back door.

Carling kicked the remaining glass from the doorframe, yelling all the time for the people inside to stay down, stay down! Plods almost tumbled over each other to get into the lounge where the man of the house was still busy punching his wife's face.

Hunt pushed after them and wrenched the woman away from one final punch.

"Take it easy." He held out a fist but the man obligingly spreadeagled himself on the floor.

Typical domestic. The cowards would switch from swinging hay-makers at the missus to abject compliance in a second.

"Make sure that twat doesn't move, Ray." Hunt leant around the front room door and saw a distorted view of Chris through the glass of the back door. "It's alright Chris, the nasty man's-" He dropped forward, shoved into the wall by a second man, naked except for some red y-fronts.

The man made for the back door, saw the spectre of a hunched-over Chris and desperately rattled the kitchen door for another escape route.

"Who the fuck was that?!" Hunt yelled at the room of plods. "I'm confused. Don't just stand there."

The woman was in her best lace knickers and bra. Her assailant had a streak of vomit down his trouser leg. Chris brought the second man into the living room and pushed him into a chair. The man shivered in his underwear as he begged Chris to let him leave because he didn't know the "slag" and had nothing to do with the domestic.

"Okay, Princess. Here you go then." Like the new man of the house, Hunt stood on the doorstep and handed the assailant over to plods for collaring. "One more for the limo."

He frowned at the woman sitting on the settee, blood welling up under the bruises on her lips and cheeks. "Get her a fucking coat or something, Skelton."  
_

* * *

_

"So was she?"

"Was she **what**?"

"In shock, Gene! She must have been. Did you call social services so that woman can get the help she needs?" Alex nodded thanks to Luigi as he filled the jug of Chianti back up to brimming.

"Shock?" – wincing – "The lady looked guilty, Drake, but I doubt she was shocked that her old man thumped her for fumbling the nice man over the road who coaches the girls' gymnastics."

Oh god. He was doing it deliberately. She put down her drink for emphasis. "That woman has probably been beaten **over **and over again. She probably has PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. Sometimes the man thinks he's gallant if he leaves the next beating until the previous cuts have healed over."

Ray and Chris were arm-wrestling in the corner and she shifted her head so he couldn't watch them.

"You're right, Drake. The worst thing about this job is seeing that kind of brutality day in and day out. Me and Raymondo had a big cry in the men's room before. Shame you missed it." Hunt picked his beer up. "Now I must go and console Chris."

Moments later Alex heard them all clink beer glasses in a toast to a good day's work, and she turned back to the bar.

* * *

"I haven't seen you with your young man lately, Signorina Drake." It was just like Luigi to leap right in to fill a silence. She'd noted a while back that one of the ways he got himself through the long nights of boorish insults and eye-tie taunts was to probe each of them at quiet moments like this. She'd seen him doing the same with Hunt, and every now and then both Luigi and Hunt would look across at her. Talking about her. The look on Hunt's face - always pissed off - told her that Luigi took it too far with him too.

No. She hadn't thought of Evan in more than a week.

It made her uncomfortable to dwell on him because, though she didn't have many memories, she knew exactly what was happening with Evan.

_At home, making Thursday night pancakes with me in the kitchen. Bewildered for the first month. I knew mum and dad had been in the car when it exploded, but I still woke up every morning as if they'd just left me at Evan's house and gone on holiday._ _Trying to act normal – made my breakfast in the morning, trudged off to school. Gradually I started to notice that people had a thing about me: I wasn't just an ordinary school-kid. I was "Alex Price. Her parents..." And then maybe I started to take advantage of it a little. Poor Alex Price ... And Evan kind of bought into it too because he kept bringing me home presents. When I think about it now, he spent his prime years trying to get me to practise the violin and tidy up my room. Then he'd tidy it up for me. Because I was poor Alex Price.  
_

"It was never anything, Luigi."

"I know a special relationship when I see one."

God he was relentless. She'd almost stopped drinking at the bar because as soon as she took a stool, Luigi would immediately start in with his latest intelligence on DCI Hunt's burgeoning relationship with Lorna Albert, ashen-haired expert dry-cleaner and tennis player.

"I'm happy for you then if you're happy," he said now, only Luigi didn't look happy. "Like you said, the man is your family which is …" – he made the equivocal hand gesture for 'dodgy' – "except now I am puzzled about, you know, _come se dice_, you and Mr Hunt."

"_Come se dice_ you've got it all wrong, Luigi."

She turned because Luigi was looking beyond her, staring over her shoulder at the door: the ashen-haired lady herself.

Hunt actually bounded – she could have said 'bounced' even – over to the entrance, and Alex could tell from their whispered conversation as they went over to Hunt's usual table that Lorna Albert was trying to persuade him to have dinner elsewhere. 

_I don't blame her_, Alex thought. _She's new but she senses the weirdness._

Alex didn't mean to, but she sipped her drink and shifted in her chair a little to give herself a better view of the table, of Lorna. She was very … neat. Very self-contained. She declined a drink and Alex knew it was because the drink would wipe away the matte dark pink lipstick she wore. She appeared to have an amazing capacity to ignore Ray's eyes roving over her body.

_You silver-tongued cavalier, Gene._ Alex finally saw Lorna settle back into her chair. Hunt had evidently persuaded her that there was no finer cannelloni to be had in London than at Luigi's, and what better than an Italian candlelit meal accompanied by authentic Italian jokes.

_What's the difference between toast and Italians, Luigi? You can make soldiers out of toast._

"I don't know much about white wine, Luigi. Give us your best bottle." Hunt appeared at her side suddenly, nodded at her. "You can come and join us, you know, Bolls. You and Lorna can talk make-up and knitting."

"Funny. Ah, no thanks. There's something on television…"

Alex had in fact tried to strike up a conversation with Lorna Albert a couple of weeks ago. Okay, she'd been a bit smashed and every conversation opener had fallen over, with Lorna quickly turning to Chris to answer some daft question of his about caring for his clothes. Apparently the hemline of Chris's slacks was more interesting than anything Alex had to say.

Oh yeah, it had definitely been embarrassing, and even Chris and Ray had noticed how cold Lorna had been to her.

"I'm glad the Guv's found someone," Alex had said to Shaz at the bar after giving up all attempts at befriending Lorna. "But why's she being horrible to me?"

"Chris was just saying it's because she thinks you're patronising her."

_Patronising?!_ "I was just being polite!"


	2. Chapter 2

_**II**_

"Down!"

They did as they were told, ducking their heads, sliding back down the car seats, not daring to breathe.

"What?" she mouthed to Hunt.

"Shut it." Hunt frowned and peeked up through the driver's side window.

Despite the fact that they were parked outside CID and she needed to go the toilet, Alex stayed slumped until he gave them permission to sit up again.

"That was close, Guv," Ray said, offering him a cigarette. "He was thinking of coming over too."

"He got distracted. Probably saw a schoolgirl." Hunt got out of the quattro and held the door courteously for Ray and Chris.

"What **are **you going on about? **Who **are you talking about?" Alex looked down the street, and saw Chief Superintendant Anthony Paulson disappear inside the entrance to Fenchurch East. "What - you're avoiding him?" Bloody Hunt had spilled cigarette ash down her jeans.

"The brass is holding a national conference next week," Chris explained helpfully as they walked inside CID. "What's it about again?"

"It's about 'Modern policing and responding to the Scarman Report'," Viv said, reading from a memo that he then handed to Hunt. "Guv, the Super was looking for you. I think he wants to confirm that you'll be attending too."

"I know, I know. If I can keep out of his way another couple of days I'll be right."

"Why, don't you want to go?" Alex asked and – Viv excepted – they exchanged their by-now familiar 'she's doing it again' looks.

* * *

"Ah Hunt, you're a hard man to track down."

Not hard enough, Hunt thought. He'd seen CS Paulson coming down the corridor and had quickly ducked into the stairwell. And now here Paulson bloody was again, one level up and trying to conceal his puffing.

"You want to see me, sir?" Hunt's hands were in his pockets. He could tell the CS didn't like it that he kept the cigarette burning down in the corner of his mouth.

"Oh yes, well, it's getting late in the game, but I suppose you've heard about the conference in Brighton next week. I've had the word from the Commissioner that he wants our branch to put best foot forward and play a big part in making it a success." There was a moment there that Hunt almost thought Paulson might punch his arm playfully. "Can't have the Metropolitan Police being upstaged by City of London or any of your northern chums, can we Hunt?"

"No, sir. Thing is … I have been trying to get out of a prior engagement all week, but it's been hell of a-"

"Oh don't worry, Hunt. I know it's not your thing. No no, I just wanted to let you know that I've asked DI Drake to attend all three days and" - he looked very satisfied - "she's on the bill. That'll make the Commissioner happy. I've asked her to talk about psychology and modern policing. She and I had a fascinating chat the other week, and she mentioned this PSD thing-"

"PTSD," Hunt corrected him, disgusted with himself for knowing that.

"Yes … well. Maybe she can show some of your former Mancunian colleagues a thing or two about policing in a new era. And we can illustrate how quickly this part of the Force has come to terms with the direction Lord Scarman has determined for us."

* * *

"I bet you're thrilled."

"Three days in Brighton? I couldn't be more thrilled." Alex motioned to Hunt to shift his behind off her desk. As soon as Paulson had passed on the news about her going, she'd known he'd be here, glowering, arms crossed. "I don't need to go. I don't care anyway. You should have gone yourself."

She looked around. Not a single police officer was occupied in actual policing. Rodney was busying himself with removing the posters Hunt had placed over the centerfolds for Lord Scarman's visit. Lewis was on the phone but laughing too much to be doing anything work-related.

Later, as they left a mugger in the interview room, Hunt held her back, touched her arm and then let go. "I'll give you the heads-up about what happens at police conferences. I've been to a few in my time and it's not pretty. There's a jolly nice lovely dinner of scallops and mucky cheese, and then the brass give the 'we are all one Force' speech, and then the old boys' club go off for 100 year-old malt whisky at the bar, and the rest of the rabble-"

"The **other** boys' club," she interrupted.

"-get drunk at the pub and the local stripper brigade earn enough in three days to holiday in Tenerife for a month. Now does that sound like something you should be attending?"

"Do you think I've been protected all these years from the masturbatory-"

"Say it again."

"Masturbatory-"

"One more time."

"Shut up. I doubt Lord Scarman would approve of that happening this year anyway."

Alex pushed past him and walked through the doors. It was not as if she'd been actively politicking with the brass to attend the conference; Paulson had told her it only occurred to him because the Commissioner had been looking through the attendees list and commented about seeing the same old faces year after year. Putting her on the speaking programme had come to him in a "light bulb moment".

Now it left her with some quandaries for her big speech. How to impress a room full of cops with what she knew, but not blow their minds._ With what I know.

* * *

_

God, Ray. He was incapable of disappointing the Guv, Shaz thought. DCI Hunt had been mentioning the conference for the last couple of days, ever since DI Drake had been selected by CS Paulson to attend. _The way the Guv goes on, I'd think he'd be glad to have her out of the office for a few days. _

Yeah, everyone was getting tired of hearing about it, but Ray continued to humour him.

"Paulson's probably only taking her so he can try it on."

"He'll have to stand in line, Raymondo. The way DI Drake dresses GMP will think our lot have put on the after-dinner entertainment." DCI Hunt frowned and picked up the weekly report file Shaz had just finished typing. "We may have got used to her way of doing things - " _he means her jeans and bra strap_, Shaz thought – "but now she's going national. I don't think the constabulary of this country is ready for it."

Okay. Shaz couldn't suppress a laugh at that. "Sir, are you saying DI Drake's going to need protecting at the conference?"

"DI Drake is special, Granger."

"Well you can probably still attend too," Chris said and Shaz knew that finally someone had come up with the magic sentence DCI Hunt had been waiting to hear.

"And give the criminal scum of Greater London even more opportunity to do evil?" Hunt gave the report a quick once over. Shaz could see his frustration as the report told him that DS Carling had spent four days in hot pursuit of one pensioner-aged shoplifter, Skelton had completed his first aid certificate, and Biro couldn't follow a simple search warrant procedure.

She looked slyly at Chris as she picked up the paper and turned to the cinema listings. "Well, DI Drake was showing me the brochures of the hotel everyone's staying in for the conference. It looked ancient and old and it had a lovely-looking ballroom. Oh and an indoor heated swimming pool. She's gone out to buy a swimsuit."

Hunt snapped the report file shut. "I hear Brighton's lovely in the Autumn."


	3. Chapter 3

_**III**_

"You know, you're practically calling me a slut." Alex prepared to get up from the table in the tea room. Why was he following her around CID just to persecute her for agreeing to speak at a bloody conference in bloody Brighton?

"And I'm telling you. You may think the police conference is going to be all Pernod and black-tie black forest truffles after dinner, but if you walk in dressed like that I am going to have to stand in front of you and beat them off with a crowbar."

"I can't figure it out. Are you worried that I'll embarrass Fenchurch East by using big words in front of your old drinking mates, or is it that you're jealous that I'm speaking and not you?"

Shaz had left a box of new tape recorders on the table and Hunt pretended to test one of them.

"Maybe you should take one of those tape decks with you to record my speech," she continued. "You could learn something." He was still fiddling with those damn buttons like a little boy. "Whatever," she said finally. "I have to pack."

"Oh then let me give you some handy packing hints, Bolls." Hunt looked at her. "Pick up your suitcase and place it on your bed. Place your jeans, your tops, your jacket and them boots in the suitcase. Shut the suitcase and throw the suitcase out the window. Then go and buy a lovely dress like Lady Di wears."

"Why are you coming along, anyway? Shaz said you had to cancel some plans with Lorna for Wednesday." She bent down right next to his ear, voice shifting down to a low whisper. He stopped playing with the tape recorder buttons. "Better be careful, Gene. Your suits have never looked so sharp. Don't ruin a good thing."

* * *

DCI Dave Billings was to fill in for Hunt for the three days of the conference. Not that they needed the baby-sitting, Viv thought. It had been dead quiet for a week. Viv had asked the cleaning lady to tidy away anything unsavoury in Hunt's office in case Billings was one of those rare DCIs that didn't bet, look at girlie mags or put smoke stains on the ceilings of their offices.

No one knew much about the man as he was based over at Bexley. No one found out much before lunch either, which is when DCI Billings made his first appearance. Solid, but not exactly fat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and wearing grey leather zip-up shoes, he carried a briefcase under his arm.

"What do you think's in the briefcase?" Chris whispered to the team as they collected, like a line-up, in the middle of the office. "He was hugging it tight."

"A pie for lunch and some stick mags," Ray said knowingly.

Viv informed Billings that two constables were looking into a spate of stair-dancing a couple of streets away, and several people had reported a flasher making a nuisance of himself down by the Fenchurch Women's Centre. Billings seemed satisfied – actually now Viv thought about it, he hadn't actually said anything – and spent the afternoon in Hunt's office, door closed.

Viv had gone in a couple of times and noticed Billings had uncovered the stash of girlie mags he'd carefully hidden at the bottom of the filing cabinet.

At four o'clock Ray had had enough and burst in before Viv could stop him. "Sir, have you got any orders for us? Anything you want us to … uh prioritise?"

Billings didn't look up from his newspaper. He'd taken his shoes off and the office stank of socks. "DS Carling, I can see you're a very capable man. You can handle yourself."

Ray looked back through the open door at Viv and shrugged.

"I believe in delegation, DS Carling. Here." Billings held out his car keys - he still hadn't looked up from the newspaper. "It's the Cavalier. Watch the clutch. Sorry about the dog hairs."

* * *

"Not at all like the _Night of the Living Dead_," Alex murmured as she followed Chief Superintendent Paulson into the lobby of the Royal Albion Hotel. A number of uniformed police were stretching their legs after a coach trip down from Bristol in thriving rain, and the lobby thrummed with the sort of coppers excited to escape their wives and spend three days doubling up in hotel rooms with their farting, snoring colleagues.

Most of the high-up brass hadn't arrived yet, Paulson told her, but the few who had had quarantined themselves in a corner of the ground-floor bar. The rest were the sorts who would still be pushing papers around Fenchurch East and the likes in thirty years' time.

_I've been in this hotel before_, she thought, _or rather I'll be here again_. It seemed the present owners were keen to disguise the Victorian grandeur she remembered, and had painted everything cream and peach with gold brocade and chrome to try and compete with the newer, flashier hotels being built in Brighton. _In thirty years they'll strip it all back to the Victorian oak again and pay exorbitant amounts of money for the period furniture they've just thrown away. _

She was itching to shake off the Chief Super. Paulson had driven her down the M23 in his Rover and Alex had only barely managed to dissuade him from 'motoring' her over to Hove on a sightseeing excursion. Unsurprisingly, for Paulson drove with an alert and irritating carefulness, DCI Hunt was at the reception as they entered even though he'd still been yelling at a mugger in an interview room as she and the CS had left Fenchurch East.

"Well." Chief Super rubbed his hands together at the four-star splendour around him. "Inspector, I'm not sure if you've been to one of these conferences before, but there are many good connections to be made."

He nearly elbowed her playfully but thought better of actually touching her. Connections to be made? She tried not to frown. Paulson seemed harmless enough - he was shorter than her, with his bulbous eyes he reminded her of her own grandfather. But god, maybe Hunt was right.

"Are you prepared for your speech?" he asked her brightly and she decided that no it was okay, Paulson was just excited about her speech and how it might help burnish the Met's reputation. "You're on for tomorrow morning before lunchtime. I'd say that's a pretty good spot. You can give them something to talk about at the dining tables."

_Oh yeah, the speech. _She'd spent a day writing out overhead transparencies, humming to herself as she tried to recall the Powerpoint presentation on her laptop at home. It detailed the kinds of therapies for treating police officers who had undergone psychological trauma.

She knew that post-traumatic stress disorder, and therapies to treat it, were only being recognised about now, bloody 1980. Just the way Hunt talked about 'psychology'... she knew it was probably wrong to bring it all up here. But it was so tempting.

Maybe that's why she was still here ... to help rid the Force of all the rot, the poison at the roots.

_Stuff it_, she'd thought. _I'm going to blow their pre-industrial minds. I'll just mention it all in an oblique way...  
_

No therapies had help Sam Tyler of course, she had to admit later as she and Paulson waited at the lifts to go up to their rooms.

Hunt reappeared at that moment, already smelling like a pint. "We'll have to watch our behaviour. The receptionist says there are a few hundred Christian lads and lasses in town for a big jamboree." He looked from her to Paulson, remarkably chipper for someone who'd spent all weeking describing Brighton as a hang-out for unemployed dog breeders and part-time deviants.

Hunt lowered his voice. "Err they said there was a mistake with my reservation, DI Drake. Any chance of us topping and tailing together?"

Paulson didn't hear that comment as he was humming _I vow to thee, my country_ at the same time as the lift clunked to a halt and the doors opened. "You know, I'm really looking forward to this, very much. Oh I know there's always the resentment towards the southerners and the big city police, but I think we can really shine this year."

"See you after lunch, sir." Alex waited until Paulson wandered off far enough down the corridor. "I saw your name on the hotel reservation list when I was checking in. Nice try though."

"Oh well, your loss." Hunt pulled out his room key and the lifts door closed on him.

* * *

Three hundred police from around the country crowded into the main conference auditorium. After a few requests for the empty front rows to be filled, and a problem with the sound system, the Home Secretary gave a short address on new challenges, new era, new methods... the only thing Hunt took in was that William Whitelaw had a couple of very visible hairs growing out of his nose.

The Commissioner for the Metropolitan Police then stood, followed by the key-note speaker, Lord Scarman himself.

Hunt sat at the back, arms folded, legs straight out. The only way you could get through an afternoon of sitting on your arse. _Okay baldie. Let's have it._

Nothing Scarman said came as a surprise, although as the man spoke in the sternest terms of his personal outrage at the stories of police racism and brutality from the people of Brixton it felt to Hunt as if the criticisms were very personal.

God … that heinous day when he'd run himself ragged pretending that CID were a model for enlightened policing, and Drake and Ray had arrested the nation's top two bleeding-heart lawyers on rubbish drugs charges. Then there were the thirty or so statements given by members of the gay community accusing 'the crazy police lady' of hijacking their pink protest tank and flattening a Ford Escort.

_Yes thank you very much_, _Lady Bolls_, he thought, and glanced around to see where in fact she was. No doubt she'd made influential friends in high places already. But Hunt couldn't spot her in the audience, and he dozed through the long afternoon of speeches, waking every now and then as the sound system static blew the speakers or some thumping bore sat down to a tepid round of applause.

There was barely time to down a beer at one of the hotel's three bars before the formal conference dinner began at half past seven.

Lorna had pressed his dark blue suit and chosen a matching dark shirt and red and blue striped tie from his wardrobe – "Well you're going to make the right impression, Gene," she'd said. And Hunt had suppressed the faint annoyance at her having so quickly assumed an interest – even a small one like a striped tie – in his prospects. But he also felt guilty at the care she'd taken when he breezily lied to her about the Chief Super **forcing** him to attend the conference, and could they postpone their dinner and pictures?

Oh well.

He felt smart enough in the suit, but not too sharp because his Manchester colleagues would start in with the grief at the first opportunity. A few of them came his way and they stood beyond the cluster of tables as the diners began to file in and take their seats.

It was quite a flash venue. The massive dining room was decorated solely in soft cream – someone had gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure the monochrome – with chandeliers hanging low over the tables. However, the unfortunate sight of a podium and microphone signalled more arse-numbing speeches to come.

"Hunt, I notice your accent's picking up some geezer there." Reg Driscoll had joined him with some more Manc colleagues - Reg clinked glasses with him and winked at the others. "I couldn't understand what half them London blokes were talking about this afternoon, but from your lovely suit there, I can see you're fitting in nicely."

"Bit of a turn up," DCI Burke said, already half-cut at... Hunt checked his watch... half-past seven. "We had bets on when you'd be slung out of the Force and frog-marched back back to GMP."

"Never mind, fellasm" Hunt replied evenly, sipping his ale. "Start a new pool. I've had Lord Scarman himself personally notify me that my days are numbered."

"Yeah well, I guess that's hanging over **all** our heads." Driscoll was watching the entrance, and Hunt looked at him and thought, _I'll bet you dirty bastard._ _Still on the take from half the knocking shops in Manchester, no doubt._

"Fucking hell." Burke nudged the blokes on either side of him, but Hunt didn't have to turn around to know what they were goggle-eyed about.

"If I'd known lady friends were allowed, I would have called ahead to Pixie's and put an order in."

"Settle down, Colin, I heard she's from down Gene Hunt's way. She's going to be enlightening us tomorrow on why birds in the Force will help us catch more scum."

"Now why would they go and stick a poor gorgeous bird like that with your lot, Hunt?"

"She heard about the legend of Gene Hunt and requested a transfer." Hunt skulled his beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Fucking Reg Driscoll.

"That's a criminal waste."

"So is the space in your underpants where your todger should be."

Hunt ignored Driscoll's retort and gave one side glance over to the middle of the dining room where Alex Drake was being introduced by Paulson to one of the Met's Assistant Commissioners, a youngish-looking man who, back in Manchester, would be called a fine, strapping lad.

"Oh great, that Dutch pillock's got his hooks in her." Reg pointed his lager glass in the Assistant Commissioner's direction. "Hunt, you never met our former Chief Super Adrien Vanderzee. He barely spent a year bothering with us before he got offered Assistant Commisioner with your lot. Picked up his clogs and left."

"He's half-English, Reg."

"Well Manc and Dutch is a terrible combination. He's a hard little bastard, Hunt. You better watch yourself. Vanderzee's one of them puritan lot. I'm sure he'd like nothing better than to see shot of you."

Excusing himself, Hunt took a seat at a table near the bar and read the menu. 'Trout served with bananas in a creamy lemon sauce'_._ Gave up the pretence and watched Drake and her new high-up brass acquaintance in peace. _Flirting is second nature to her_, he thought as her face lit up at the something the Assistant Commissioner said. He knew her well enough to know that smile wasn't genuine, but it worked all the same. Paulson himself was glowing in her reflected aura.

_What am I doing here? _He looked around for an ashtray, ignored the Brummie twat next to him trying to show him photos of his three under-five kiddies. 

_Bloody hell, Alex. Give the man some space. _

He had to admit it. She looked pretty … pretty what? Well, there were a good two hundred and fifty men in the room, and perhaps twenty-five women. And her standing there in a sequined silver dress that slid off her shoulder and curved over her thighs, clung to her legs. On another night it would be a little ridiculous – Diana bloody Dors set down among the ordinary shuffling blokes and the few dowdy middle-aged lady DCIs. But, with that bullish Assistant Commisioner by her side, people were actually buying into the glamour of the night. She couldn't shake Paulson off, and others gravitated towards her, listened in. One pathetic sod went off to fetch her a cocktail, which she thanked him for and then turned away.

_What am I fucking doing here? Trying to save my job? Why bother… She could be up there now talking to that Vanderwhatsit bloke and stitching me up. She's got form for that. _

He stubbed his cigarette out. _She can get away with taking out half a city block in a pink tank, that one. Unstoppable. _

"Hunt, here you go." Reg Driscoll handed him his coat. "We're off to the pub. Burke says the Trout Orleans'll set his gall bladder off. You can tell us what a soft bastard you've turned into over a few more bevvies. Oh and," – Reg was winking again – "your ex-missus says hello."


	4. Chapter 4

_**IV**_

Viv sighed as Carling sprang up the steps to the front desk with another guest for the cells. Another one. It was now half past midnight and Ray had spent the afternoon and evening hauling wrong-doers off the streets. There was a weird energy about him, and he'd repeatedly stomped down to the holding cells with a suspect before heading back out again in DCI Billing's copper Vauxhall Cavalier.

And what about that DCI Billings? Leaving for the day at a quarter to four without his car, without a nod to any of them as he plodded into the weak daylight with his briefcase under his arm.

"The shift ended three hours ago, you know," Viv said to Ray, pointing up to the clock. "You're doing a great job, Ray, but you can probably leave some scum for the others to deal with tomorrow." It wasn't as if Carling had to answer all the cell-dwellers' moans about needing a cup of tea or a pillow.

"I'm using my initiative," Carling replied a little defensively.

Shaz and Skelton swung through the doors, escorting a gentleman in a grey mackintosh, who was wiping his snotty nose furiously with his sleeve. Skelton took him through to the toilets to clean up.

"That's the flasher who's been bothering the women's centre," Shaz said to Viv, shaking her fringe from her face. "The lady who witnessed him … you know … she said he had a really bad cold. So he was pretty easy to find."

"The lack of pants probably helped you spot him as well? Yes, it's pretty bitter out there." Viv reached for his clipboard.

"Shame really. He seems really nice."

* * *

The ceiling was so far above her – studded with crushed glass so it shone like a country night sky. And the shadows thrown off the water gently rose and fell on the great arcing pool walls. Outside, conference first night revelers wiped their running noses in the sea air and stumbled through the towering glass doors into the lobby. In this underground cavernous hall their hoo-rahs and shrieks were far away and faint.

Floating on her back, she couldn't have been warmer or calmer. The pool a perfect temperature, the silence a blessing after the many buzzing, tiring conversations of the evening. Despite Hunt's insistence that senior police officers turned feral when away from their stations and families, everyone she had talked to had been as dull as cabbage.

Well maybe not Assistant Commissioner Adrien Vanderzee, who had given a flinty, short lecture to the diners at the after-dinner speech. What a wind-up that had been. Sending them all out for the evening to the pubs, clubs or back to their rooms with a 'do better or find something better to do'. She smiled at his brio. He didn't seem like the man to front a kinder, gentler Metropolitan Police Force, but one that obviously looked dimly on excuses and the thousand stalling tactics of the old school brigade.

It was probably very late. _I'd better get back to my room myself_, she thought. _Can't float here forever, Molly. _

Twisting onto her front, she swam the rest of the lap slowly and bobbed up at the pool edge before her robe.

He was there, sitting in a deckchair with a half-empty bottle of champagne - rather expensive champagne, she noticed. His tie was loosened and his feet bare. In a nod to the fact that this was a swimming pool, he'd rolled the bottoms of his trouser legs up to below his knees. He hadn't said anything, so neither did she. How long had he been sitting there anyway, with his perfect view of the pool and her in it?

Rising a little out of the water, Alex supported herself with her elbows on the tiled pool edge. He took a long swig from the bottle and continued to stare, not blankly but with the confidence of a drunk man who had left his inhibitions behind a few rounds ago. He looked at the dip of the dark ruby swimsuit down across her breasts, her bare arms, hair dripping down her shoulders. She observed him taking everything in about her.

"You should go to bed, Gene."

The rolled-up trousers and rolled-up sleeves were comical really. But then again not, because she admired his calves and thought how lean they were. And … this made her feel like laughing … he had rather nice feet. After all, when did Hunt not wear a suit? When did you get any sense of the physical man other than his unsmiling face and his hands, always deftly flicking away a cigarette butt or pointing the blame at someone? It was rather endearing to see him just a bit more undone. _Now did you have something to say?_

_

* * *

_Alex stepped up the ladder and onto the tiles, not too far away from him. Shook the water out of her hair. He leaned forward in the deckchair and stared again. _I won't be put off by you_, he thought and her look back as she dried her arms and legs seemed to say the same thing.

The moment was a disturbing, clashing sensation in his throbbing head – the sting of the chlorine, but the sweet shadows the dim pool lights cast over her face.

She hadn't picked out a swimsuit that he would have chosen, or rather the one he **had** chosen once or twice in an uncomfortable dream. It was surprisingly modest, but it was enough. She wasn't quite as bony as he liked to make out sometimes in a tease. God, the swell of her tits as she'd lifted herself out of the pool...

The worst thing – on this night when he felt raw and old and bested – the worst thing was he had wandered around Brighton's streets with those Manc fools and downed beers in at least seven bars, but all the time… all the time he knew deliberately that **this** was where he would end up. Just drinking in the sight and committing the shape of her to memory. As she turned away from him, the curve of her arse and her thighs and the swimsuit strapped across her flesh.

Hunt drank deeply again from the bottle, stood up and came close although part of him wanted to bolt before he grew any more pathetic. The water had straightened her curls out and he thought, _she looks like a different person_. The water had also worn away the blue eyeshadow, the eye liner, all the flash. Another woman revealed beneath.

"You know, Alex, when you start talking about all that PTSD stuff you sound deranged."

A conversation for another time perhaps, her look said. _Different, and more beautiful. I can't fucking deal with it. _He pointed the bottle of champagne at her. "Just thought I'd come and give you some advice before your big moment."

Oh now! Now she was a little mad. Now she couldn't help herself. _Here we go, _he thought_._ Putting the bathrobe on, she stood up fully to him, grabbed his wrist and looked at his watch.

"Oh, you came to give advice on my speech at one in the morning." She flung the hand away. "You're messed up, Gene. You and your mates there at the dinner tonight like naughty boys in the corner. Did you even hear what the speeches were trying to tell you? Did you even stay for them?"

"Long enough to see you drape yourself over that Van Camp bloke."

"Well you should have come up and introduced yourself. Assistant Commissioner Vanderzee seems very interested in the doings at Fenchurch East. I was quite surprised, Gene. I suspect he's been talking with Lord Scarman."

"And now he's been talking to you 'n' all!" He could quite easily shove her into the water. Fuck it. He hadn't come here to talk about another man.

"You have the wrong idea about me."

"I have no idea about you at all." That was the problem. He looked down as she backed away, picked up her towel and walked off slowly around the pool to the exit.


	5. Chapter 5

_**V**_

"I'm off down the bookie for a few." Rodney hitched up his trousers, obviously regretting the salami sandwiches his wife had packed for his lunch. "You coming?"

Viv only looked up briefly. "I can't." Rodney still hadn't figured out in the three years since Viv had joined CID that he didn't bet and only joined him on his daily excursion to Pitman's to stretch his legs.

"Granger can watch the desk if she's around … where is she anyway? And what about Carling and Skelton?"

"Someone has lit a fire under Ray," Viv replied wearily, "and I am processing my behind off to catch up with his collarings."

"Well it wasn't that DCI Billings. He hasn't even showed this morning." Rodney smacked his copy of the Racing Post on his palm. "Not exactly leading from the front, is he?"

Viv waved him off and radioed Skelton. "We haven't seen you two in a couple of hours. Anything going on?"

Chris's voice hissed through the radio, but it was clear enough. "Can't talk now. Get some back-up over here to Dolly Vardon Lane. It's all getting a bit out of control."

* * *

When had she first realised that it was all going wrong?

And was there anything she could have done about it?

Alex Drake had given enough speeches to develop a speaking style – arms crossed, pacing, with a hand casually waving the projector remote about – but here she was marooned on the podium, leaning over the microphone and looking up and over her shoulder at the projected overheads.

The first minute. She had confidence, and she launched straight into an interrogative opening line that would brush the thoughts of the coronation-chicken-for-lunch out of the minds of the three hundred people in the auditorium.

"How can we police the streets of our villages, towns and cities when the trauma we see every day affects **us** as much as it ruins the lives of those we protect?"

Yes, she had confidence – could speak for minutes without an 'umm' or 'well then'. It was that confidence Hunt seemed to loathe, but she usually felt that it was so easy to connect with an audience. She knew her subject. What she had to say was important.

The fourth minute. Why were so many of them cross-armed and heads down? **Not **paying attention. Perhaps one or two even sleeping? And some of them with their heads cocked to the side and not even bothering to disguise their amusement? It was like a room of Hunts, judging her, not bothering to disguise their frank appraisals. Making her feel like she wasn't worth listening to, only worth ogling.

They're not real. _You're not real._

But she stumbled over her words, forgot what she'd been saying. She moved quickly to her third overhead, turned around to look up at the projection on the screen and … it caught her breath.

It looked like the loops and scratchings of a mad man.

_Did I draw that? It's a diagram _– in the briefest moment a clammy feeling crept over her shoulders – _but I'm not sure what it means, ha … and they're looking at me, and I'm ... I don't understand what it's supposed to mean._

She was standing above them all and she had an omniscient view – the beginnings of concern on Chief Superintendant Paulson's face and Assistant Commissioner Vanderzee leaning in keenly over his knees as if being inches closer would render her more intelligible. Hunt's words came back to her. _"You know, Alex, when you start talking about all that PTSD stuff, you sound deranged." _

_Think. Analyse. Bring it back. _ "How many officers on our force interact with members of the public every day and … ahh … they're **suffering**!" She leapt on the word. "The diagnosis would surely be a new …" A jittery nod to the man sitting next to the projector, who slid the next overhead up. "Ahh a new diagnosis – is it new?" Was there such a thing as PTSD in 1982? "Post-traumatic stress…stress …"

She suddenly saw Hunt standing at the back of the auditorium. What was he saying ... he was mouthing something ... she concentrated on his mouth ...

"Dis-fucking-order!"_  
_

* * *

The mothers and fathers of Cardinal Baigent High School's senior gymnastics team crowded at the bottom of the short flight of steps leading up to the front door of Carl and Gay Donnelly's rented terraced house. As Shaz got of the car, Chris was pushing back against a dad who'd poked him in the chest several times.

"Back off, all of you, **now**!" Chris's elbow kept a fevered woman from clambering past him up the steps. At the sight of newly arrived plods the group did back off to the footpath's edge, but their threats and bellowing continued. The men's blustering and women's off-shrieks had curtains up and down Dolly Vardon Lane twitching and brought curious neighbours onto their doorsteps.

"What's happening?" Shaz asked, leaning into him to hear over the volleys of insults.

"Not sure, but that Casanova from the other day's got something to do with it." Chris nodded across the street to the identical terraced house where he, Ray and the Guv had recently arrested the husband for assault on his lace knicker-clad wife. "From what the red-faced bloke there's saying, that little twerp we let go, Carl Donnelly, was diddling more than the Missus there over the road. Bloke's daughter confessed she was having a relationship with Carl… oh I don't know the ins and outs of it."

He and Shaz covered their ears as the front-room window next to them shattered. They both ran up the steps and through the door.

"Get the **fuck** out here, Donnelly!" came a murderous female voice from the street.

Ray barreled down the hall towards them. "I knew we'd be back here," he seethed and set his feet on the stairs. "That lynch mob out there's ready to tear him a new one." He nodded up the stairs. "The hero himself is hiding in his wardrobe."

"Is there anyone else in the house?" Chris asked.

"He's got a wife. I don't think the poor cow knows what's going on." The blinking of Ray's eyes conveyed he was thinking through what to do. "I got to go out and calm this mob down." He opened the door and stepped out, and a growing mass of locals ran to meet him.

"Oh heck." Chris felt for his gun wildly. "You stay here, Shaz. I'd better get out there too." The sound of bottles being smashed against the footpath and Ray's shouts hastened him to the door.

Before he could open it, an immense crash shook the carpeted floor under their feet. Two at a time they leapt up the stairs and scrabbled around the hall across piles of washing. In the front bedroom Carl Donnelly was climbing out of the wardrobe that his wife had pushed over in her newly discovered fury.

"**It's all lies!**" Donnelly ducked a wild barrage of blows from her, and then began to hit back. His wife – her face white hot, face like a mask – didn't notice the punches as she began to tear at his hair.

* * *

_You finally found a way to shake off the Chief Super, I'll give you that. _

A sudden onset of flu had driven CS Paulson from the auditorium as three hundred people trooped through to the dining room for lunch. Before his exit, Paulson had found himself at the centre of a ruck of Met Assistant Commissioners, battered by furious whispers. David McNee, the Commissioner himself, had disappeared very quickly, glaring briefly at Paulson on his way to reception.

Most in the audience had immensely enjoyed the previous twenty minutes, and none more than Hunt's former colleagues at the GMP. They had sought him out so quickly that Hunt barely had time to slip through to the lobby. There he saw the end of what may have been Alex Drake's first public dressing down. Paulson, drawn up to his full height and still not quite her match, had such a fury on that his bulbous eyes looked in danger of popping free.

Hunt had been a DCI long enough to know how quickly a chain of recriminations could form and gain momentum. From the Commissioner down to himself? Well he could shrug it off_. I'm not the one who thrust her into the spotlight._

"… embarrassment to the Metropolitan Police …" he caught, although Paulson was endeavouring to keep the bollocking down to a venomous hiss. "All the Force will hear about …"

Drake hadn't said anything, Hunt noticed, and Paulson quickly stalked away and into the lift. He watched her stand still in the middle of the empty lobby, her head seemingly turned to examine a giant potted fern, her knuckles up to her lips as if she were puzzled.

The doors behind him clattered open and Reg Driscoll assailed him heartily. That drew Alex's attention and their eyes met across the twenty metres of marble floor. The look she gave him was defiant. And so fucking unfair – he knew that look meant she included him in with the vast majority of people who had enjoyed her humiliation and were even now tucking into re-enactments of it with as much glee as the seafood vol-au-vents.

* * *

A group of Avon ladies toasted each other at the Royal Albion's bar ahead of their big night out. They then accompanied each other in pairs to the bathrooms and stepped out into the shivery, brilliant night. Alex followed them. Then she ditched them. They were so happy – practically skipping along Kings Road towards dinner, flushed cheeks and a night of promise.

_I can't believe this feels worse than my first holiday here._ A fourteen year-old dumped by Evan onto her mother's grandparents for two weeks' seaside holiday in Brighton. Her grandparents had motored over from Surrey to pick her up. It was miserable – to spend your holidays with two people who had breathed a quiet mutual sigh of relief when their own rebellious daughter moved out to attend university. Now, to give Evan a much-needed rest from her teenage tantrums they had postponed their Bridge parties and left the key for a neighbour to water the plants and feed their Siamese cat to come to Brighton and watch over poor, insufferable Alex Price.

_I'll always hate seaside towns for that._

The only understanding they'd shared was that Alex could walk ten steps behind them down the streets on their excursions, and that no one spoke about Mummy and Daddy.

Now Alex walked aimlessly, away from those red-cheeked joyful ladies into the dark. She'd drunk enough over the hours since midday to not feel the night chill. She was walking away from the pier anyway, where a pack of her fellow conference attendees were assembling for their curry and club night out. If they called out to her – and maybe one did heckle her – she didn't look back.

* * *

Gene Hunt had been following her at a distance ever since she lurched out through the entrance to the Royal Albion's Night Owl Bar. He'd crossed the road to avoid the same crowds she'd avoided and walked briskly, smoking to keep out thoughts of how cold the night was. He stopped when she stopped and they went on for ten minutes before she suddenly stepped down to the beach, and he lost sight of her.

Hunt crossed the road and was nearly run over by a cab overstuffed with revelers. Burke opened the passenger door. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

A year ago he would have been the one in the cab, already bladdered and cajoling anyone lagging behind to get their Maryanne arses inside. He knew exactly what lay ahead for these middle-aged lads tonight, stuffed into the cab's backseat. For them it was the best a few nights at the seaside could offer. But he was itching to escape them.

Reg Driscoll wasn't a stupid man. "I know that look," he said triumphantly and he poked a finger out the window. "Your name's not Hunt for nothing, is it? Spotted the wounded deer and now you're moving in for the kill. Got a bottle of Asti Spewmanti under your coat to seal the deal?"

What was the quickest way to get rid of them? _Agree with them, I suppose._

Hunt leant down to the cab window, raised his eyebrows. "You clowns won't have heard of Bollinger."

* * *

_I'm not a good person, but I'm not like them. What is it about the sea air that gives these middle-aged blokes a new lease of life anyway? _

It was uncomfortable though that Reg Driscoll had seen through him so quickly. As he'd watched her in the hotel bar and followed her out of it, Hunt had almost pictured himself as some kind of protector, watching from a near distance to ensure no harm came to her. _Yeah, ridiculous._

Driscoll was right. He had ulterior motives, and if they made him uncomfortable, well he wasn't going to turn back and return to his hotel room and the test pattern on the telly.

If they'd seen her in her bathing suit, walking away from him. If they'd had the chance... they would have done the same thing.

Ignoring the fag burning down at the corner of his mouth, Hunt looked across the beach and tried to spot her. It wasn't as if she was some dumb bird to con. Hunt didn't do those anyway. Lorna, who he pictured right now working through the neat, careful book of dry-cleaners' accounts … she'd turned down a couple of half-hearted attempts. She was the canny sort who, he suspected, was plotting out their relationship with the exact opposite degree of care that he was taking with it.

And if Alex Drake wasn't overburdened with common sense (or sanity, the cynical part of him had to add) well she was still pretty tough. _She'll smack me if I get out of order._

_I am not taking advantage.

* * *

_

"It's fine, you know, because I only ruined my career in my own mind." Alex tapped her temple, turned from the teen boy propping up her right side to the teen girl supporting her left. "I don't care. It's my real life where my career matters. And you know... it's Angela, isn't it? Angela, I hope I get a second chance in my real life. Next time," – she waggled her finger at a third teen – "tell some jokes, the one about the …"

As they guided her to the steps leading back to the promenade, the boy holding her up was suddenly wrenched away. She spun around on the sand, so disorientated she fell into the steps.

The boy struggled against Gene Hunt's grip on his collar.

"Making new friends?" Hunt sized up the group of five teens briefly before deciding that they probably hadn't planned to abduct drunken Alex Drake off the beach. "Never mind, I'll save you from the scary lady." He offered the boy his hand.

"Fascist!" she pointed, yelling loud enough that people looked down over the promenade railings at them.

"Stop using that poor girl as a leaning post," Hunt said, beckoning Alex with his hand. "Let's go. Come on. It's me."

"The night's just started, Gene! Me and the gang are heading to..."

"Burgundy's," another girl volunteered and Hunt could see how much she was regretting that they'd approached the distressed lady on the beach to see if she was alright.

"Don't worry, Gene." Alex clapped a hand on his shoulder, whispering, "They're some of the kids from the Youth for Christ camp. I think my honour's safe with them, right?"


	6. Chapter 6

**I don't own the lyrics to the Pete Townshend song quoted in this chapter.**

**_VI_  
**

As scenes of seduction went, Burgundy's wasn't exactly what he had imagined. Dragged reluctantly up the steps to the club by Alex Drake and her new best friends, he found himself suddenly overwhelmed by the very beings he had spent the last twenty years avoiding: teenagers. Teens with their hormones, acne, clubs, intense hatreds. Hell, he could look around the dirty dark low hall and see twenty perms worse than Ray's. "You are **joking** me, right? We are not staying."

"Oh I don't know …" She gestured around them to the sweaty strobe-pounded room as if it were her idea of paradise. The place was filled, full up, with more escapees from the Christian youth camp. Hunt frowned and turned a full circle slowly – bloody hell, where were the camp counsellors tonight? _I've been to knocking shops with less action going on. _

Alex disappeared further into the club and he followed, deliberately steering her to a booth in the corner near the wall of floor-length velvet curtains. She sat back quite passively and he watched her from the bar as he ordered drinks.

"I do not want to have to witness Timmy there getting his lower lip ripped off by that girl's killer braces." Hunt plonked down a bottle of Asti Spumante and two glasses on the table. 'Timmy' was one of her rescuers and he moved his new youth camp girlfriend onto the dance floor as OMD started up.

"Smells like teen spirit, Gene."

"Smells like something anyway. Those Christian kids could have bathed before they hopped the fence."

"You know what?" Her eyes met his properly for the first time that night, dark liquid, soft. "I actually feel safe here. I know that I can sit here and drink this …" – she raised her glass – "fine drop and not have any of those horrible police officer gentlemen bother me. Except you." For someone who had downed cocktails for a good solid hour, she still seemed to have a mighty thirst. "I guess we're both in disgrace now. You're on thin ice and I-"

"What are you worried about, Bolly? You're a good DI. I have a good five internal investigations hanging over me head, and you're all bothered about them not giving you an encore."

She slumped forward. "Gene. I was a **joke**."

"No, you should've **told** some jokes."

"I wanted to blow their minds." She turned her eyes his way. "Did I blow your mind, Gene?"

_Oh Christ. _

"I bet they think I'm only here because I'm sleeping with Paulson."

"Half the force knows Paulson is probably up in his hotel room right now wearing suspenders and being whipped by one of the finest tarts in Brighton."

Cheap champagne. It made her cheeks red and warm. She was trying to relax, but her fingers drummed the table, and after a minute of them both listening to Hall and Oates she burst out, "God I was bad, wasn't I?"

A younger Gene Hunt would have lied to cheer her out of her funk and into a cab back to his hotel room. He was still contemplating it. "Put it this way, Bolls. Another minute and I'd have hit the fire alarm."

* * *

No one did 'sickened' better than Ray, Chris thought. With the entrance, the interview rooms, the halls and the cells full of trouble-makers – some of whom had attempted to smash down Carl Donnelly's back door – Ray announced himself sickened that DCI Billings had shown up for work at four in the afternoon and was yet again in his office with the door closed. "And you." Ray dumped Biro's crossword puzzle book into the bin. "How about you get down them cells and start talking to the bastards who tried to lynch me, Chris and Shaz at Dolly Vardon Lane?" Biro shuffled off. "Pillock. You too, Lewis."

He sat on the corner of his desk for a minute, and Chris could tell the urge was welling up inside him.

"It's bloody mayhem around here. The Guv'd be out there with us, and this weirdo's just been sitting there with his spank mags and a thermos of coffee to last him all day. It's not right!" He looked at the office door and the legend of the Manc Lion. "It's not right!"_

* * *

_

"Go and buy them some drinks, Gene." She waved a twenty pound note at him, but he just put it in his pocket. "They rescued me." Actually she wasn't sure if the teens she was staring at fondly were the same ones who had come up to her on the beach to ask if she needed assistance. Here at three minutes to one the venue was so appallingly hot and overcrowded that, if she'd been on duty, she would have considered closing it down for violating patron limits. And for serving under-age teens. How had half the childish clubbers got in anyway?

"I really would like to get out of here soon. I am the only person in this club over forty and that makes me pervy grandad to all them lot."

She shook her head, filling his glass again. "Let's pretend we're on holiday and we haven't care in the world. Not unless you want to get back to your hotel room for your goodnight phone call to Lorna, of course."

He stripped off his damp jacket and undid two shirt buttons. "Let's leave Lorna out of this. I know you're dying to get stuck into her."

Her eyes widened. "Why would I want to do that? I **like** Lorna. Unlike most of the women you know, I don't go in for all that stupid competitive stupidity. Fighting over..." _You. Fighting over you. _She leant her cheek on her hand and he scooted over close to her. "I have to say I was a bit surprised."

He was scanning her face intently. "We are a nation of gob-shite talkers, you included. You do not like Lorna. And I'll tell you something – she doesn't like you. Now let's settle down and talk about how perfect you are and what a sad specimen she is."

"I will not." Alex put down her drink. "What do you mean she doesn't like me?"

"Nothing. But she's thinner than you for a start. And she's got lovely blonde hair. That must piss you off a bit?"

"Of course not. Shaz is thinner than me and I like her."

He wouldn't let her look away. "But I'm not going home with Granger every night."

"But you're here with me."

Under the strobe lights and in this dirty funk atmosphere, all the things that had struck her as off-putting – the dirty blonde hair sitting on his collar, the pock-marked face, the mean set of his mouth and eyes – all the things she had noted just to criticize now seemed to stir her. She had to look away.

* * *

"It feels weird, doesn't it? Just you and me here without Ray, Chris, Shaz and the others." They'd lapsed into silence for maybe fifteen minutes, and they'd somehow stayed side by side in their booth with her thigh against his. He wasn't sure she knew that.

"It's the hormones," he replied knowledgeably. "They're making you want to jump on me." A joke, but oh god, she was looking at his mouth and his eyes, and he thought, _I've actually got a chance here._

"I want to tell you something, Gene." Alex paused and then put her hand down on his. Both hands sat on the table, and he used all his control to keep his there. "I have the feeling sometimes ... I know we end up on the opposite side of pretty much everything, but sometimes I have this feeling that you're..." She looked away as if she couldn't express it, or wasn't sure she wanted to continue. "The last month I've just been drifting. I thought I was going back home to my daughter, but I'm still here and … I know I've got to make the best of it, but it's starting to take its toll. I had so many signs before, so many clues that I needed to follow, and if I **did **then I was so sure I would be with her now. But it's all gone, and I'm beginning to think I'll never make a connection again."

She drew Gene's hand into both of hers. Her hand felt slightly clammy, but she was drawing his back towards her chest. With the thought that she'd put his hand against her throat ... he had to hold a breath in. "It doesn't matter at all that those people laughed at me today and think I'm crazy. The problem today was I looked up at those overheads and I just had no idea what they meant … it's like I've lost the connection with my real self. You don't think I'm crazy, do you?"

It was a long moment.

He just wasn't that good a person. _How did we get from her staring at my mouth and thinking about kissing me to discussing what a fucking fruitcake she is in the very next breath?_

The DJ on the stage at the end of the hall announced a special track in honour of the many patrons currently absent without passes from the bi-annual East and West Sussex Christian Youth Camp.

"You know what, Alex?" He slipped his hand out of her grasp. "Somewhere out there, maybe not in this town, but somewhere out there is a kindly twat who will sit and listen to you go on about what the voices in your head are telling you." He drew his suit jacket back on. "Now that that Evan bloke's got his hands full with that little girl, you think it's me. But it's not. I can't help you and I'm not sure if anyone can." His glare put an end to the words about to come out of her mouth. "And don't you bloody start up about getting back to your daughter either, because you know? You're always talking about leaving and I finally get it; one day you will leave. But don't bloody wait. I will drive you to wherever your daughter is. If she's in boarding school in the Hebrides we can probably get there by this time tomorrow." He drew up his coat and threw some pound notes on the table. "Get yourself a cab back to the hotel."

" … this song's especially for Stacey and Robert, who are celebrating their two-day anniversary. There's a light surrounding you tonight …" The DJ dimmed the lights and the strobes softened as the beat struck up.

_'When people keep repeating … that you'll never fall in love_ …

_When everybody keeps retreating … but you can't seem to get enough_

_Let my love open the door to your heart' _

Hunt cursed the energy of teenagers as they filled the spaces he was trying to walk through. He felt sickened by the aftershave bottle the lads must have passed around, and by the three bottles of cheap plonk he and Drake had shared. _I am going to go home and phone Lorna and take her to the ruddy pictures and have a nice normal meal, and sit there and watch television, and cop a feel... _He made it to the edge of the hall and the stairs when she stopped him, drew him back with a hand on his sleeve. The look Alex gave him was more appealing and confused than he'd ever seen.

"I'm sorry, Gene. I just want to be with you tonight."

He knew he was making a mistake, and to punish her he let her do all the work. She did – she took his coat and looked a little embarrassed, but she put an arm on his shoulder like the other teens had been doing earlier. The song was actually quite upbeat but she wanted it to be a daft love song and so they were slow-dancing out in the black corridor. They were alone. The bouncer began a walk up the stairs toward them, then retreated and smoked a cigarette peacefully under the flashing 'Welcome to Burgundy's!' sign at the bottom of the stairs, turning away people because the owners had finally declared the club full.

Hunt relented and put his hands on her waist. The same waist Carling had handled gleefully once at a fancy-dress party. It had made his gut clench, and it did now again as her hands hung off his neck. The lighting had dimmed so far that only when a strobe light swung its beam their way could he see her the bead of sweat on her forehead, and a dampness where her throat swelled into her breasts.

They moved like two people testing each other out, too untrusting to be the first to melt into the meaning this moment had created. He was ignoring the song, but sensed after a minute the effect the lyrics were having on her as she avoided looking at him, her head tilted down slightly. He pulled a little closer, breathing in the smell of her as he tried not to think too hard about his hands resting lightly around her thighs.

* * *

They were milling at the bottom of the stairs. Reg Driscoll and Burke and ten others arguing with the bouncer to be let in. "We're police officers. What d'you mean you're full? We just saw that group there leaving."

Hunt saw them looking up the flight of stairs to him and Alex. A moment earlier her face had left his shoulder and he nearly bent to kiss her. What had stopped him?

_Your name's not Hunt for nothing, is it? Spotted the wounded deer and now you're moving in for the kill. Got a bottle of Asti Spewmanti under your coat to seal the deal?_

The strobe lights picked up again and Burgundy's was re-energised with kids who should have been sitting in a circle discussing Deuteronomy. It was their bedtime. It was all their bedtimes, Hunt decided as the bouncer relented and the Manc lads started walking up the stairs.

_I wouldn't do this for anyone else_, he thought, smashing his fist against the fire alarm. A tidal wave of hysterical teenagers were soon upon the stairs.


	7. Chapter 7

**The lyrics to Panic by The Smiths do not belong to me.**

_**VII**_

"I hope she's wearing more than her knickers and bra this time," Chris murmured back to Shaz as they followed Carling into the house. No one had yet plastered over the hole in the lounge wall DCI Hunt had made with the man of the house's head. Carling frowned Chris into silence as an older woman ran down the stairs to him.

"Where have you been? I call you lot an hour ago and you promised you're only going to be five minutes."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Louise's mother. Patricia Beauchamp." She spelled out her name testily as Shaz pulled out her notebook. "She's upstairs locked in her bedroom and she's only going to kill herself and my grandchildren too."

"I'm sure she doesn't mean it," Shaz consoled her as they followed her up the stairs.

_I'm not so sure. This bloody street._ Ray's eyes were bloodshot with the intermittent sleep he'd managed over the past two nights. A kip here and there at his desk. The elation of being given the freedom of the streets by DCI Billings had long worn off and he moved sluggishly up the stairs after the woman, wondering why Dolly Vardon Lane was so packed with trouble-making bastards. They'd arrested several of the neighbours for disturbing the peace and practically every one who had fathered a teenage gymnast in the area had been cautioned and told to behave themselves.

Chris would have gone first, but Ray shoved him back.

He bent to the keyhole. "Louise." He doubted she could hear him. Raised his voice, called her again. This time she screamed back at him.

Chris suggested they just sit and let her calm down. Chris's hand was on his sleeve, but Ray shook it off. "No! Shut it!" His head throbbed. There was no calming down. "Come out or we'll kick the door down!"

No reply. Silence, then, "Are you the ones that arrested my husband?"

"Yes."

"Well what am I supposed to bleedin' do now?!"

Ray's hands shook. With adrenaline and heart seized, shouldering down a door had never seemed so easy.

* * *

"Christ!" Hunt yelled as they both scraped their shins tumbling after each other down steps to the below-ground entry of a terraced house. He bent over to dry retch. Alex glanced back up at the street they'd just run down. They'd followed the stream of teens fleeing the police vans.

"Now I know how them rabbits from Watership Down felt."

She'd laughed as she ran because it was so absurd. Fleeing their own colleagues. Luckily, she suspected that the surging wave of panicking teenagers had overwhelmed Hunt's northern mates, and in the maul she and he had escaped unseen.

They could probably have just blithely walked off down the street and back to the Royal Albion Hotel. But at the time it had seemed natural to join the rioting mass spilling out into the traffic and bolting it into the night.

_Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ…_

They tried to keep up with the skinniest, liveliest kids, yelling a warning as the police van swung into the street. Everywhere the streets were streaming with them: vaulting walls, crushed into doorways, crouching behind rubbish bins and laughing, getting thumped with a rolled-up newspaper by an irate gentleman walking his Afghan hound.

"God, are you alright?" She felt fully sober now, and he was still doubled over in pain.

"Stitch."

She laughed again in delight. Hunt could leg it, she'd give him that. He must have been a terrible teenager, a tall bad streak, she imagined. _I would have been in big trouble if I'd met him then. _

As a teenager she'd been steered away from the bad boys by Evan's wise counsel. Evan wouldn't judge, but he was very persuasive. The few bad boys who talked to her after school, or teased her as a form of courtship, had been brought down to size pretty quickly. _He kind of smells, doesn't he?_ Or … _I saw him talking to your friend Mandy when I dropped you off yesterday._

The siren that had cursed down the street faded into distant suburbs and they walked back up the steps. Lights in the house blinked on and they headed briskly back towards the sea and road to the hotel. The nearby streets were emptied now. Hunt strolled beside her, hands in pockets. _

* * *

_

Now both Louise Beauchamp and her mother were screaming at Ray. Screaming in flipping stereo. The signs of the bashing on Louise's face showed even worse now, a week later. In such a state. Ray quickly surveyed the room. No kids.

"What you done with your children?"

"What am I supposed to do now?" Her arms hung stiff at her sides, driving the rage up through her veins to her face. "You just took him away without a thought. Why couldn't you let him out on bail? Bet you think you're so **fucking brave**!"

Ray left Chris to talk the stupid bitch down. Barged past the mother into the hall. The door to the other bedroom was shut but not locked and he had to calm himself before he opened it. Four children huddled on a bottom bunk bed with a blanket pulled up to their chests. Their mother had turned the lights off so he switched it back on and held up his hands as a sign of peaceful intentions.

The eldest, a girl, was about ten years old. "Is my mum dying?"

Ray knelt down at the end of the bed. Two of the kids were under three and they didn't seem particularly upset. The older two had seen more, he guessed. They knew the potential of their parents; they obviously knew where nights like this could end up.

"She's fine, your mum." Somehow looking at them made him more anxious than dealing with their bawling mother. "What you been doing in here? How long have you been here?"

"I'm not sure," the girl said, looking at her digital watch. "The light on this doesn't work and it's been dark for a while. We've been singing."

"Oh? What you been singing?" He ignored the thumps and bangs in the hall, which he guessed was Chris trying to calm the mother down and take her for a cup of tea in the kitchen. And then into custody for a psych assessment, he hoped.

The two older ones wouldn't sing – too embarrassed. But the two-year old girl was a little performer, and she took the opportunity of this strange man watching. It wasn't a song exactly. It had no words, and he couldn't recognise a tune. It was agonising and strange and sweet, and he clenched his hands into fists and looked up at the ceiling.

* * *

"It's a full moon, you know."

Shaz sat beside Chris at his desk. They had pointedly not talked about Ray going off to an interview room to be by himself. Ray hadn't said a word and he hadn't stuck around to see social workers come to examine Louise Beauchamp's children and talk with their now perfectly calm mother.

Calling Billings a useless twat had become redundant, they'd done it so often over the past couple of days. Chris gave a side glance to the Guv's office – he was in there alright. The other desks were empty. Lewis, Rodney and Biro and the others no doubt had spent the night enjoying pints at the local they preferred when Hunt wasn't around to drag them into Luigi's.

"You know what? The Guv is back today sometime and I think I'm going to just have to say this." Chris felt exhausted but quite calm as he knocked on the DCI's office.

Billings was on the phone and stopped in mid sentence. "I'll call you back," he said and put the phone down straight away.

"We've had a rough night, sir." Chris turned slightly because Viv had joined him in the doorframe to listen. "I know that you'll be back at Bexley tomorrow... err today, but I just wanted to say that DS Carling has been running himself ragged doing his job, and ah sorry, but he's been doing your job too."

Billings hardly moved.

"We're used to our leaders, y'know, leading from the front." His voice dwindled. "I'm sorry, it's all I wanted to say."

Billings picked up the phone again, but paused. "You know. Where I'm from, police officers don't need a hand to hold, or a thumb to suck, or a mother to kiss them goodnight and pat them on the head." He began dialling, which was their signal to leave. "I heard that your DCI Hunt was a pretty hard man, but from what I've seen in two days, I'd have to say that he is running a pack of Brownies, not an investigation team. Shut the door after yourselves."

* * *

Billings watched Viv clap an arm on Chris's shoulder and walk him out through the office. On the other end of the line a man said, "You didn't actually need to call back."

"Sorry," Billings said, stubbing out a cigarette that had been smouldering in the ashtray. "One of the twerps here finally got up the pluck to come and knock on my door."

"Why?"

"I've been ensuring they all get out into the fresh air and give me some space. They weren't used to it."

"Well you're out of time."

Billings opened the drawer to Gene Hunt's desk; he had picked its lock two hours before. "I didn't find anything. Checked his locked drawer, but it only had a copy of...wait a minute..._A Midsummer Night's Dream_."

"That's a play." There was silence for a few seconds. "Check it for pencil marks or annotations. I doubt that DCI Hunt would have set himself up some kind of code, but you never know."

"Hunt's idea of culture is the letters page of Big Jugs. But yeah he's marked a bit about umm... mermaid on a dolphin's back... blah blah... no idea. Imperial votaress... something..."

"Okay, yes well it's odd, I agree. Maybe it's significant. He might be using it for passwords somehow. You've got a few hours so check that office again. Carefully. The file could be in among his normal files."

* * *

Hunt was aware Assistant Commissioner Adrian Vanderzee had watched him walk Alex through the lobby and into the lift. She pressed the button for her floor and held the lift doors open.

"Are you coming?" She'd torn the slit of her dress in their escape down the streets and seemed unaware some of her thigh was showing. It made him feel guilty - worse was the vulnerable look on her face as she realised he wasn't coming up with her.

He went up to the doors of the lift and after a moment took her hand off them. As the lift doors closed he said, "Go get some sleep, Alex."

He felt in his pocket for his cigarette packet, but it must have fallen out earlier. There was a shadow on his shoulder and he turned around to Vanderzee. "Lend us a fag, would you, sir?"

"I don't smoke." But Hunt had known that by looking at him. "But, DCI Hunt, I would like a word."

"It's three in the morning, sir."_ I am not in the mood for another 'I've got my eye on you' speech. _"Can you deliver the axe on me tomorrow?"


	8. Chapter 8

_**VIII**_

From her hotel room window, Alex Drake pulled her bathrobe tighter around her waist and watched Hunt stroll across the street below, following Assistant Commissioner Vanderzee. The two men stood stiffly, formally. beneath a streetlight, with the dark English Channel waters surging against the beach.

Both men were the same height although Hunt was stooping, head bent down as he did when he had no choice but to listen. It made her uncomfortable, reminded her of weeks earlier when she had reported Hunt to the Chief Super for violating Gil Hollis's rights, and he had stoically endured a humiliation before his entire team.

Hunt was back out in the night when just ten minutes earlie, she'd suggested they keep walking? She'd wanted to keep him out there with her, but not having to make a decision about whether she wanted him to come up to her room... she'd felt reckless and full of energy.

_My head hurts_ ... Alex looked back into her room now for her glass of water.

Anyway he hadn't given her a choice.

* * *

Vanderzee leant against the railings, his arms crossed to preserve body heat in this sharpening wind. He was handsome, Hunt had to admit, with those boring noble good looks that women preferred. Forgettable, but not regrettable. _Come on, bring the hammer down and I can get meself to bed._

"I used to take orders from Chief Superintendent Paulson, DCI Hunt." He wasn't much for chit chat obviously. "Then I sidestepped him. And now I tell him to sort himself out when he puts his foot in it."

That was unexpected. Hunt looked up.

"It didn't surprise me when Paulson brought your DI here to parade her around. But I was surprised that the man would undermine you so openly. He didn't want you to come, you know. Wanted you to stay back in Fenchurch East and mind your own business." Vanderzee's eyes constantly shifted, surveying every change in the scene around him. "I made sure you came here for this stupid conference."

"Why, sir?"

"I heard about you when I was with GMP and I've heard about you at the Met. Nothing good of course. You're pretty much seen as everything bad about policing and everything that needs to change." He smiled, not a warming expression. "Can I make an observation? And I'm putting no judgment into this. I quite see why you do what you do. You have your thing going there in Fenchurch. Tooling around in your car, keeping under the radar. Except you're going to be on Paulson's radar now because he and all the rest of us are under pressure to get the likes of you out."

They both turned to face the beach.

"You as well, sir."

Vanderzee rubbed his gloved hands together to warm them. "Yes, I still have to take orders. But I also like to make plans." He turned to Hunt again. "I think I understand you. You can't just do a job, can you, Hunt? You're either performing great feats or you're doing something pretty terrible and making yourself a liability."

_Don't fucking sugar-coat it then. _"So there's a job you need doing, but you and your superiors don't want to be associated with it."

"Let me turn that around. Paulson will have you out of Fenchurch East one day. I'm just telling you that there are people higher up who know your value."

"If I'm so bloody wonderful, you'd let him get rid of me?"

"I'd let you rise a bit further than DCI if you want to." Vanderzee shook his head. "They talk about standards a lot now, since Scarman put his big rocket up everyone's arse. But they forget why we're here. To protect the public. I know the force has to change but it doesn't have to diminish."

Hunt didn't bother to disguise his scepticism. _He thinks I just need a pat on my back like a big slobbery dog. I'm from those shitty little Manchester suburbs, and I should feel proud because he's giving me the time of day ... night. _

Vanderzee was watching him quite closely. It seemed like this conversation had a time limit and it was fast running out. "I bet you like to think we've all got in for you, but don't go feeling sorry for yourself. I've got work for you to do."

"That's all well and good, sir, but for every step I take there are lawyers and protestors and Lord Scarman just waiting."

"The two biggest pains in your arse are currently resting in the cemetery." It took Hunt a long moment to get that he was referring to Tim and Caroline Price. And then the Assistant Commissioner glanced back to the hotel. "Well correction. You just put the biggest one to bed." _He certainly is observant, _Hunt thought. "I've got no idea and I don't care what you've got going on there with your DI. I'm just making my offer to you. But I'm also putting a proviso on it." He motioned for them to walk back to the hotel. "DI Drake put on an embarrassing display yesterday."

"Excuse me, sir. But you and she seemed to get on pretty well the other night." _For a youngish bloke, he's a grim bastard, he really is. Driscoll's right. Dutch and Manc really is a terrible combination._

"I have **no** idea what you mean, Hunt. I married my wife thirteen years ago. She modelled for knitwear catalogues before she met me, so I think you get the picture. Now she raises my children and gives me a fine life."

_Okay I get it. Drop it. _

"Don't get me wrong. I have no problem with women, blacks, Asians, anyone else in the Force. But I want effective people." Vanderzee paused just before the chrome-handled doors. "My proviso is that you need to see about getting DI Drake transferred somewhere else. Don't care where. Do it and I'll be in touch."

"About what?"

"About the work I need you to do. Now get some sleep."

* * *

Hunt walked lightly past Alex as sat down at her desk. He could tell she was glad to be back, away from Brighton. But then of course the news about the conference wouldn't take too long to reach this lot.

Granger the only one working. Chris, Biro, Lewis picking his nose, Rodney carrying a box of files off to the records room for his afternoon nap.

But Ray … _why is Ray right up on my arse? _Hunt turned at his office door and Ray practically tripped on his boots.

"Guv."

"Can I take my coat off first?"

No. Ray advanced closer than a man should.

"Miss me?" Looking into Carling's face he could immediately tell – some complete twat had put Ray in charge. Some twat had broken Ray.

"Glad you're back, Guv."

Hunt put his arm around Ray's shoulders and gently pushed him towards the door. Fixing Ray would have to wait until clocking-off time. "Yeah, me too. Now, go and find Viv and tell him to get all my bloody stuff back here in my office now."

He caught Alex staring at him from her desk, and his stomach lurched at the memory of her arms drifting down his chest and encircling his waist, breasts pressed against him as they'd danced. Her face against his cheek and her mouth so close. He'd been ready to walk out of that sodding ridiculous night club but she'd kept him there...

Hunt put his hands up to tip the blinds, needed some peace from her. But there she was, looking thoughtful and turning his way. Keeping his gaze. Keeping him there again. _Tip the bloody blinds_. But his hands weren't inclined to.

_Fuck's sake._ He walked around his desk and opened the drawer that Billings had carelessly negated to lock. Sniffed. _The bloody cheek._

"You got a cold, sir?" Chris asked, dropping a tall stack of files onto Hunt's desk. The number of arrests they'd made represented as manilla folders.

"Huh?" His attention still fixed beyond the windows and in the office. _She's thinking about kissing me. She wishes she had. She's beginning to trust me and she shouldn't. _"No Christopher, it's that sea air. It's so clean and pure, I couldn't stand it."

**the end**

**If you want to keep reading, the next story in this series is And If I Start a Commotion. Cheers.**


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